White Lies, Black Lies
by phattrash
Summary: (Set sometime before the s9 mid-season finale.) Dean wishes he knew how to tell Sam about Ezekiel. He drinks, he angsts, and Sam comes to find him. T for language.


Dean frowned into his drink, his vision starting to swim and waver at the edges, and he thought dimly that he should be getting back to the bunker by now, that Sam would be worrying about him. _Sam_, worrying about _him_. "He's such a dumbass," Dean informed the barkeeper, who'd been entertaining his slurred ramblings for what felt like the past half hour. "Like, he's prob'ly waiting up for me, back at home. I don't**—**I dunno how to tell him, y'know. That I, um, manipulated him." The woman, whose name he'd forgotten after his sixth drink, set down the glass she'd been wiping and raised an eyebrow.

"Manipulated? We _are_ talking about infidelity here, right?"

Dean waved a hand, cringing again at his choice of cover story, but it wasn't like he could proclaim that he'd tricked his little brother into cramming an ancient celestial being of dubious intentions into his body. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm just...sick of lying to him about it. I lie to him all the time, but this's different. And it sucks ass, because he's in a good place right now, for like, the first time in...in eight years, and I don't wanna ruin it by, uh, telling the truth. Or. Y'know?" The woman pursed her lips thoughtfully, wiping particularly hard at the same glass she'd set down earlier.

"I'm not sure what to tell you. Sounds like a pretty fragile situation." Dean nodded too vigorously, making his head spin. "Fragile. Fragile, yeah. He's**—**asshole never gave two shits 'bout himself. But now, now he's...I dunno. He's better, n' I want it to last."

The barkeeper made a little sound of dissent, then, and added, "See, but that's the thing. I don't know your man, but I'm almost positive the fallout'll only suck worse the longer you put off telling him. If his mental health's your top priority, I'd consider breaking it to him ASAP. _Gently_." Dean wished he could crack his skull on the countertop and be done with the reticent, failure-to-communicate bullshit once and for all. It was kind of amazing how many times he'd managed to save his brother's life while simultaneously putting him at risk for a psychological break. "Fuck," he intoned. The woman gave him a smile that verged on uncomfortable. "I think you'll be okay. Just gotta rip off the band-aid, huh?" Dean made some sort of an affirmative noise, but inwardly he was paralyzed by the mere idea. He wistfully considered the possibility of his letting the damn secret slip under the anesthetic buffer of inebriety. No sooner had he had the thought than he felt a large hand land on his shoulder. He jumped, fumbling clumsily for his knife, before Sam's voice said, "Woah, Dean, relax". Dean's eyes settled on his brother's concerned face, and he swallowed, heart beating out of his chest. "Sam? How'd...how'd you find me?"

Sam took the seat next to his and scoffed lightly. "Stupid question." Elaborating no further, he leaned his elbows on the counter and gave Dean a searching look.

"So. It's, um. It's pretty late, don't you think? I kind of came to-"

"I can take care of myself, Sam. You shouldn't've bothered." Dean's voice came out louder and sharper than he'd intended. He noticed distractedly that the barkeeper had moved out of earshot. "I wasn't implying**—**I..." Sam cut himself off, head lowered, mouth working soundlessly. Dean felt an immediate twinge of regret, and grabbed at Sam's hand, unthinkingly.

"No, sorry, don't-I'm sorry. Let's, let's get outta here."

* * *

They stumbled across the rain-slicked parking lot to the impala, Dean leaning against Sam for support he didn't necessarily need. "Hey, so, where's your ride?" Sam shifted against him and gestured in a vague direction. "Hot-wired one of the bikes in the garage. I can come back for it tomorrow morning." Dean laughed in disbelief, fondness blooming in his chest. His tongue felt like a lead weight in his mouth, and the inside of his mouth tasted like death, but he felt oddly pleased just the same. "Delinquent. What, keys not cool enough for you, James Dean?" Sam chuckled ruefully as they reached the car. "I don't know, it seemed like a good idea at the time." Dean stepped away from Sam, swaying only the tiniest bit as he did so, and reached for the driver's side door.

"Dean."

Dean unlocked the car, numbed fingers slipping against the water-spotted handle. "What." He squinted up at Sam, who hadn't left his side.

"Shotgun."

Dean gripped the door handle and made as if to get in anyway, behind the wheel where he belonged. "C'mon, Sammy, I'm okay."

"You're plastered." He held out his hand for the keys, and Dean obliged, making a show of sighing dramatically before he passed them to Sam.

* * *

**[TBC?]**


End file.
